TO THE LIGHTHOUSECourt, as if he could see her there among the fountains.She looked now at the drawing-room step. Shesaw, through William’s eyes, the shape of a woman,peaceful and silent, with downcast eyes. She sat mus-ing, pondering (she was in grey that day, Lily thought).Her eyes were bent. She would never lift them. Yes,thought Lily, looking intently, I must have seen herlook like that, but not in grey; nor so still, nor soyoung, nor so peaceful. The figure came readilyenough. She was astonishingly beautiful, William said.But beauty was not everything. Beauty had this pen-alty — it came too readily, came too completely. Itstilled life — froze it. One forgot the little agitations;the flush, the pallor, some queer distortion, some lightor shadow, which made the face unrecognisable fora moment and yet added a quality one saw forever after. It was simpler to smooth that all out underthe cover of beauty. But what was the look she had,Lily wondered, when she clapped her deer-stalker’shat on her head, or ran across the grass, or scoldedKennedy, the gardener? Who could tell her? Whocould help her?
Against her will she had come to the surface, andfound herself half out of the picture, looking, a littledazedly, as if at unreal things, at Mr. Carmichael. Helay on his chair with his hands clasped above hispaunch, not reading, or sleeping, but basking like acreature gorged with existence. His book had fallenon to the grass.
She wanted to go straight up to him and say, ‘Mr.Carmichael!’ Then he would look up benevolentlyas always, from his smoky vague green eyes. But oneonly woke people if one knew what one wanted to206
